The Unknown Victim
by ncfan
Summary: For the families of missing nin, things never really get better.


If this seems a little weird, it's because it was originally in second-person, but I changed it to first-person. Insert "you" where "I" is and it will make a lot more sense, trust me. I hope it remains powerful nonetheless.

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

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The first thing I comprehend is disbelief. _What? There must have been some mistake, that's not possible, he would never… _Then there is shock. Then there is a mind-numbing quiet.

Then there is pain. Because my sister, my brother, my father, my mother, my husband, my wife, my son, my daughter, my friend, my lover, my _comrade_, has become a missing nin.

The key question on my mind is _Why?_ My cry that to the empty night, knowing I will never receive an answer. Why? Was it for money, or political gain? Was it because of a mission they refused to carry out, was it because of a mission they _did_ carry out? Were they threatened? Was it because they simply grew dissatisfied with village life? All those questions ring through my mind, scarring me because I know that no one will ever be able to give me a true answer.

Only them, and they aren't talking.

For the first few weeks, I become something of a social pariah among my fellow villagers. I bear the stain of the missing nin, one who has sold out their village for whatever reason; I am unclean. People avoid me in the hallway; they whisper behind their hands when they see me. Some of my so-called friends begin behaving coldly around me, and if my loved one's crimes are severe enough, I may be openly harassed. Storeowners may refuse to sell me goods or even allow me on their premises. If I am a shinobi, I will be barred from receiving missions for the first month at least. I will be interrogated rigorously, again and again, and it may be months before surveillance of my activities ceases. Things eventually return to partial normality, but no one ever looks at me quite the same way again. I try to forget my loved one, to put them from my mind.

And that, of course, is doomed to failure. How can I _ever_ forget, when I and the village won't _let_ me forget? You wound me, my friend, even when you are no longer with me.

I feel a deep, unreasoning fear every time I see hunter nin leaving the village. I fear every mission I receive afterwards, and I read casualty reports as though they are best-selling novels; my fingers curl the paper. I wonder where my loved one is every morning when I wake up cold and alone.

Sometimes, if I am lucky, I never hear about them again after they defect. But more often, I will hear of them allying themselves with some major criminal organization, maybe even forming their own splinter group. I feel sick inside, I try to avoid the eyes of those I used to trust implicitly (because the defection of my loved one has opened my eyes, and I realize that I can't really trust anyone anymore), and I shed my tears in silence where no one can see them, because those on the outside can not possibly understand how I could weep for a traitor. But I know, and you know, anyone who feels what I feel. I know because I myself am too far inside.

Over time, word of my lost loved one grows few and far between. Years may pass, and I begin to heal from the wounds inflicted so long ago. I begin to think that maybe I can begin to live a semi-normal life again.

Then, my world crashes down again. Because it's finally happened. My sister, my brother, my father, my mother, my husband, my wife, my son, my daughter, my friend, my lover, my _comrade_, is dead.

My loved one can not be given a decent burial with proper ceremony. The bodies of missing nin are usually cremated (and even then there is rarely a whole body, because hunter nin will sever the head from the body and dispose of the rest), but if I am of a decent family or if I am able to pay off the right people, I might be able to retain custody of my loved one's body. They will be buried in a potter's field, their graves possibly desecrated, but at least there will be a grave to visit.

They are dead, but the nightmare isn't over yet. It's far from over.

I am tortured with memories. Memories of playing with them, laughing and eating with them. Training with them and going on long, hard, tear-filled missions with them. If I was their lover, the memories taunt me, gall me, burn me, _kill_ me. Memories of long nights I can't even half-remember anymore because of self-sustaining repression begin to resurface, and everything I built up for myself feels hollow and empty.

I can not, can not ever show my grief to the world. I can not cry, or scream, or wail, because my loved one died a traitor to my—_our_ village, and no one is ever supposed to grieve for avowed traitors. So instead, I bow my head, grit my teeth and harbor every last drop of corrosive anguish deep within my heart where not even the most profound of interrogations or autopsies will ever find it.

If I am lucky—but I'm usually not—, I may eventually be able to overcome my grief (But probably not, because grief bottled deep inside only grows harder to manage). I may come to terms with the fact that my loved one was a missing nin in the first place, and I may come to accept their death. Only when I am able to lay my memories of them to rest and accept that my loved one was lost to me long before their heart stopped beating will I truly begin to heal.

But still I wonder. I will always wonder.

I wonder if I could have done anything to prevent what happened to my loved one, and as time goes on, the what-if's eat away what little happiness I have left.

For the family of a missing nin, things never get better. They only get worse.


End file.
